Squinch

The cessation of hostilities was brief 
Coinciding with a new haircut, 
A labradoodle puppy 
And one tank of nitrous oxide. 

We are a fickle dissonance, dear, 
Metastasizing like a huckster’s vocabulary 
On the carnival grounds near the old airport 
Where the heavens are littered 

With Styrofoam cups and Mylar balloons 
From long ago parties toasting the age of dirigibles. 
I don’t mind getting wordy 
But it’s the preachiness I can’t abide. 

So take off your stockings 
And slip them into my mouth. 
Let your flock be my gaggle, 
The taste of blood our opiate. 

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